Auld Lang Syne
by The Knitting Cinephile
Summary: A very,very short story about New Year's Eve in 221B Baker Street.


It was late on New Year's Eve, and it was bitterly cold. John had had a long day at the clinic with a myriad of patients battling the flu, gastric distress from too much rich holiday food, and injuries from _partying hardy_ as the Americans liked to say. By the end of it all, John had a touch of sore throat and sniffles himself from all the children who thought it was perfectly acceptable to sneeze directly on him. By the time he finally made it back to Baker Street, he could hear the revelers also _partying hardy_ as it were, counting down the minutes to midnight. Although the crowd around Big Ben was miles away, John could still hear the dull roar of a few million people. John himself had no delusions of joining any sort of crowd; he preferred a quiet New Year's Eve after the past year of running all over God's green acre after Sherlock. A cuppa and a chicken vindaloo sounded just perfect, and after the vindaloo was done, then he'd top up his cuppa with some of the finest whiskey Ireland provided, toast the New Year, and fall into bed until January 2nd.

As he trudged up the steps of 221, John noticed that the house was completely dark. _Mrs. Hudson must be out reveling_, thought John. But where was Sherlock? John fought with the lock to the front door, and then up the stairs to the B flat. Upon entering, he realized the room was as cold as outside, and then John noticed the wide open window. "Sherlock?"

"UP HERE, JOHN!" came a shout through the open window.

John poked his head out the window. "Are you out here?"

"On the roof."

John, puzzled, climbed out the window to the fire escape, and noticed a fire ladder that hung over the edge of the flat portion of the roof. With a grunt, John pulled himself up the ladder and over the roof's edge. Sherlock was at the other end of the roof, gazing out over the city. "Hullo then, what are you doing out here, Sherlock?"

"Just looking. Listening." The crowd noise was almost louder from their vantage point. There was a glow with all the lights ablaze on the South Bank and the Eye of London.

John stood next to Sherlock for a while, silently listening. "Close to countdown, now." Sherlock remained silent. "Any New Year's resolutions, then?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

After a while, Sherlock asked, "What about you?"

John opened his mouth, and then frowned, and closed his mouth again. He also thought resolutions were silly, but he generally made a couple if for no other reason than because others goaded him into it. After some thought, John finally said, "No, I don't think so. I think everything's … just fine like it is." Just then, the dull roar of the far-off crowd grew quite loud, all the lights of the South Bank started changing colors, and fireworks began blasting in the air. John checked his watch. "I guess that's it then." He turned to Sherlock, put out his hand, and said, "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to face John, and put his hand in John's. The two men gripped hard and shook. "Happy New Year, John." Then the two suddenly pitched into each other, hugging roughly, with the obligatory clapping on the back that men seem to do, and John was perfectly fine with that, except then Sherlock planted a kiss right on top of his head.

John pushed away, eyes wide, eyebrow cocked. "Sherlock? What the …?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Isn't the kissing of one another the New Year's custom?"

John floundered. "Erm … erm … well, yes, but usually with romantic couples. Or family members."

"But not friends?"

"Well, erm … with really _good_ friends."

"I thought we were good friends."

"Not … erm … _our_ kind of good friends. Usually."

"So I've stepped over a line?"

"Well … erm … yeah. A bit."

Sherlock sighed, and returned his gaze to the lights beyond. "I will never understand social mores."

John also turned back to the fireworks. "Maybe that could be your resolution, then." Both men chuckled as a new snow started to fall.

_Sherlock Holmes®_ and all characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _Sherlock®_ is owned by the BBC. Thank you for reading!


End file.
